Recovery
by Chris Taylor

We're closer than they think.  Closer than we've ever been, actually. Ryan and
me.  What's funny is that I used to be reluctant to call him my best friend.  I had
other friends whom I saw more and with whom I was probably closer.  We'd
drifted, since our careers had taken us to different places.  But now, things have
changed, and we're more than friends now.  I don't hesitate to call him my very
best friend anymore, because I know he is.

How did it happen?  Funny story, actually, beginning about the time I got the flu...

*

"Boy, you look like hell," remarked a voice tinged with amusement.

I turned and threw Ryan an annoyed glare.  Tried to, anyway.  I guess it was
more pathetic than anything.  I felt like hell, and I imagined I didn't look much
better.  My body ached, I was freezing, and my head felt like it weighed about
a hundred pounds.  "Gee, thanks," I said, willing my teeth not to chatter.

"I'm serious," Ryan said, pulling his hands out of his jacket pockets as he
approached.  The amusement dimmed from his eyes as he laid the inside of his
left wrist against my forehead.  He raised his eyebrows and dropped his hand. 
"You're burning up, Colin," he said reproachfully.  "How long have you had
this?"

"C-couple hours," I admitted.

"You should be in bed."

"I know," I sighed.  "Feels like the flu.  My joints are aching my head's all
stuffy."

Ryan shook his head.  "What are you even doing up?"  He leaned against the
wall and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Got boring in my hotel," I said.  "I hate not having anything to do."

It was very quiet where we were, which was behind the office set on The
Drew Carey Show.  This was the final day of taping for this particular
episode, and since I hadn't had anything better to do, I'd gone down to
watch.  I wanted a chance to talk to Ryan for a minute, just to talk. We
hadn't in a while.  In the last few years, we'd drifted.  It was the first time
we'd lived so far apart for more than a few months.  I realized just then how
much I'd missed him.

In our younger days, we used to be very close.  As we got older and branched
out, and as our careers went in different directions (mine down, his up) we
grew apart.  We knew each other (know each other) so well that even when
we were together in LA, we didn't hang out as much.

Maybe that was why I was there.  I really did miss my old friend and I think
he knew it.  His smile was slight but unmistakable.  "You know," he said
thoughtfully, "Pat's out of town for the next couple weeks. You really shouldn't
be alone if you're sick.  Why don't you come stay at my house?  I just got her
through the flu, so I wouldn't have any trouble looking after you."

"I don't want to get you sick," I protested, although weakly.  I liked the idea.

"I've had my flu shot," he said wryly, "and I didn't get sick when Pat did.  You
won't get me sick."  He paused, shrugged, and then said, "I don't have much to
do this week anyway."

I nodded.  "All right."

Two hours later, I was tucked into the big double bed in the spare bedroom at
Ryan's.  He had a beautiful house, done in mellow woods and leather, with a
Western feel.  All Ryan's design.  He had a great knack for this kind of home
repair stuff, and I was pretty sure he'd done some of the work himself.

He started to put away the stuff I'd brought over from my hotel.  "You don't
have to do that," I said.  I felt a little dizzy, despite the fact that I was stretched
out on my back.  Nausea clenched my stomach for one awful moment.

He ignored my comment and instead looked up with concern.  A little smile,
this one highly amused, ticked up the corners of his lips after a second. 
Turning, he ducked into the open closet and when he straightened, he had a
tan bucket in his hands.  With that strange little smile still on his mouth, he
brought it to the side of the bed. "Don't get any on the bed," he admonished. 
By way of explanation, he added, "You probably aren't going to be able to
stand up for a while."

I won the battle with my stomach.  Provisionally.  It was pretty embarrassing
to be so weak.  "How'd you know?" I asked curiously.

"That look on your face.  Pat looked exactly the same way when she was
about to puke.  She couldn't get up, so I brought her a bucket."  He chuckled
and shook his head.  "Doesn't do much for your dignity, but really, it's better
than doing it on the floor or the bed.  Keep that in mind."

It was like he could read my mind.  I yawned and settle back onto the pillows,
shivering despite the three heavy blankets piled on top of me. I certainly did
feel like hell, but at least I wasn't alone.  Closing my eyes, I could hear Ryan
humming a tune under his breath.  It was a comfy sound, and if my head
weren't throbbing so badly, I might have enjoyed it.

About fifteen minutes later, I felt a light touch on my forehead and I opened my
eyes.  "Here," Ryan said, holding out a couple of aspirin and a glass of water. 
"Take these and try to take a nap.  I've got an errand to run, and I should be
back in an hour."

"Okay," I said with a yawn.  My hands were shaking a little when I took them,
but I managed to down the water without sloshing any on myself. Afterward, I
rolled onto my side and curled into a tight little ball, hoping to retain some
semblance of warmth that way.  My teeth were chattering so hard I could
barely think, but my face felt flushed and sweaty.

Finally, maybe twenty minutes later, the numbing chill subsided to a more
bearable level, and I was able to sleep.

*
When I woke up, it was dark, I was hot, and I felt extremely weak.  I also
needed to piss badly.  At least I wasn't cold anymore, and only a little achy. 
I shifted around a little, lifting my head to look around the room.  That took a
lot more effort than I could have imagined, and my head swam.  "Ugh," I
grunted, dropping my head back.

"Problem?" Ryan asked quietly from somewhere around the foot of the bed.

"Kill me," I begged.  "Shoot me or something.  God, I feel like...I got a fat man
sitting on my chest."

"Drew left an hour ago," Ryan cracked.  "Sorry.  Couldn't resist.  Do you need
anything?"  I heard him stand and watched him approach the bed--a tall, thin
man dressed in a plain white T-shirt and jeans.

"Bathroom," I sighed.  "I could use a little help getting there."

He was already moving.   Deftly, he stripped back the covers, helped me to
a sitting position and then waited patiently as I fought down a surge of nausea. 
At my nod, he pulled me to my feet.  I found I could walk on my own, but he
kept a light hand on my shoulder until I got to the bathroom.  When I got
there, he let me go on my own.

After I finished, I washed my hands and face carefully before turning to head
out.  I was exhausted by the time I hit the bed again, and alarmed by how
weak I'd gotten.  I couldn't remember a time when I'd become so sick so fast.

Ryan didn't seem especially surprised or worried when I mentioned it. "You're
really sick, buddy.  And it's only just started.  It'll probably get worse before it
gets better."

*
Turns out he was exactly right.  The next three days were a blur of feverish
dreams, cold nightmares, absolute weakness, and ache.  I remember very little
specifically except waking to feel a cool washcloth bathing my forehead,
soothing away the dreams.  My whole body felt like it had arthritis.  Other
than that, I remember nothing until I dreamed of falling.

*
I jerked awake with a scream locked in my throat.  Hands on my shoulders
signaled the presence of another person in the room.  Who? My wife?  No--
she was at home.  In the weak light streaming through the curtains, I saw
green eyes.  Only one person I knew had eyes that color, and that was Ryan.

"Ryan?" I grunted, confused and not completely awake.  "What-?"  I stopped
as memory started seeping back in.  This was Ryan's house.  I was here because
I was sick.  Still, that didn't explain why Ryan was standing there with his hands
on my shoulders, or why I was soaked to the skin.  "What the hell?"

Ryan seemed tired, but he managed a smile anyway.  "You were dreaming,"
he explained.  "Nightmare, I guess.  Your fever finally broke.  I was getting
worried.  It was up to 103 yesterday.  How do you feel?"

"Weak," I admitted.  "I have no energy at all.  Kinda hard to breathe, too." 
My chest felt phlegmy.  "Headache, too."

"Still achy?"

I shook my head and instantly regretted.  "No," I said.  I wasn't cold, either. 
Just wet, which was not a comfortable feeling.  "No more fever."

As if he could read my mind, Ryan asked, "You up for a bath?"

"God yes," I said, pushing to my elbows.  That took every ounce of strength
I possessed.  "God."

He pushed me back down gently.  "Stay put.  I'll get it ready and come back
for you in a second."

"Okay."  I laid there listlessly and tried to figure out how much time had passed. 
I couldn't, so finally, I called, "Hey, Ryan, what day is it?"

"Tuesday, I think," he called back.

Tuesday?!  I'd gotten over on Friday.  That was over three days ago! The
disturbing thing was that I couldn't remember a single thing about the past
three days.  "How is that possible?"

Ryan poked his head back into the room.  "You've had a really high fever
for the past few days, Col.  That's how.  You've been spending most of the
past three days sleeping and delirious."  He stepped in and headed for the bed. 
"It's a damn good thing you came over here.  I don't like to think about what
might have happened if you were alone. You were out of it."

"I don't feel like I'm totally with it yet," I said.

"Well, your eyes aren't glazed over anymore," he shrugged.  "That's good
enough for now."  He reached down to turn back the sodden covers and
then paused.  "Could you sit if I helped you?"

"Maybe."   With his help, I struggled to a sitting position.  I was incredibly
lightheaded, but fortunately not nauseous.  When Ryan moved away, I
weaved drunkenly, too weak to hold still.  There wasn't much hope for me
walking on my own, either.

Ryan smiled again and put a hand in the middle of my back.  Then, as if I
weighed no more than a feather, he scooped me up off the bed. "You've
dropped weight," he remarked, walking toward the bathroom.

Feeling more than a little foolish, I said, "I can walk."

We were already in the bathroom, so he ignored that and set me down,
keeping one arm around my waist.  "Need to go?" he asked briskly.

Even more embarrassed, I nodded that I did.  He guided me over to the
toilet.  Thankfully, he was well aware of my embarrassment, so he slipped
out of the room.  While I took care of myself, I heard what sounded like
sheets being stripped.  A drawer open and banged shut. Ryan sneezed
explosively three times.  His allergies, I figured.  They got especially bad
in August.

I was able to get to my feet by hanging on to the sink.  It took so much effort,
though, that my head began to swim.  "Hey, you need any help?" Ryan asked
right then.  He sounded far away.

"Yeah," I said.  "I have no strength at all."

Hands on my shoulders turned me around.  Concerned green eyes gazed
down from about five miles up.  "You haven't been out of bed much in the
last few days," he said.  "Plus you've barely eaten anything.  So, yeah,
you're going to be weak for a while.  Don't worry about it.  Just think
about getting better."  He reached for the bottom of my T-shirt and pulled
it up over my head and arms, and then reached for my sweats.

A wave of modesty caused me to put my hands over his.  "I can take it
from here," I lied.

He smiled whimsically and said, "You know, I doubt that."  Pushing my
hands away, he added, "Besides, who do you think has been keeping you
clean?  You don't have anything I haven't already seen."

With a sigh that turned into a weak cough, I let him slide off my pants and
then lead me to the tub.  It was bigger than average, and full of very warm
water.  "Feels good," I commented as I got settled.  "Thank you."

"No problem," he said.  After seeing that everything was in order, he said,
"I'm going to go finish the other room.  Yell if you need anything.  I'll be back
in a minute."

It was more like five.  I washed off while he was gone, and began to feel like
more of a human being again.  Three days with a high fever. God, no wonder
I didn't remember much.  I thanked God that I hadn't been alone.  There was
no telling what might have happened.  Poor Ryan looked exhausted.  I
wondered if he'd slept much this weekend.  I didn't know, but I was ready
to go back to sleep myself.

He walked into the bathroom with clean clothes and a towel.  Setting them
on the floor, he sat on the edge of the tub.  There were bags under his eyes,
which were glassy with fatigue.  "Word of advice," he said dryly.  "Get a flu
shot next year."

I nodded.  "Probably not a bad idea.  You look tired."

"I've been up and down for the last few days," he said with a yawn. "Haven't
really gotten much of a chance to get more than a couple hours' sleep." 
With a tolerant smile, he added, "But I don't mind. You needed someone to
watch out for you."

"Well, thank you," I said.  "You didn't have to do this."

"Who else would have?  Besides, you're my friend.  I look out for my friends."

It was kind of a touching sentiment.  This was above and beyond the call of
friendship.  Three days of watching out for someone so sick...yikes.  I owed
him big time, and somehow, I would repay him for this.  Later.  When I could
stand on my own again.  For the moment, I just smiled and relaxed.

He took the navy blue washcloth and washed my back.  I could have purred
as the soft cotton trailed warmly down my backbone, across my shoulders, up
my neck, and down again.  That went on for several minutes, until Ryan
cleared his throat and stood up.

"Can you stand?" he asked.

"No," I answered.

"Okay."  He leaned down and helped me up, thoroughly soaking his gray
T-shirt.  Carefully, he led me out of the tub, grabbed the towel, and dried me
off.  Then, he dressed me in a plain white shirt, boxers, and navy sweatpants. 
That done, he led me back to the bed, which had fresh bedding.  The room
was spotless, too, and smelled nice.  Not at all like a sickroom.

I was exhausted and lay down on my stomach.  Ryan pulled the blankets up
to my lower back and then walked around to the other side of the bed. 
Sitting down, he stripped off his soaked T-shirt and reached out to rub my
back.  I closed my eyes, too tired and too content to do anything but relax. 
Ryan's hands were warm and gentle, deeply soothing.  I found myself drifting
and was soon sleeping.

*
I awoke bit by bit.  The first thing I realized was that I wasn't laying on a
pillow.  It was Ryan's naked chest, which was warmer and every bit as
comfortable as a pillow.  The second thing I noted was that Ryan was sound
asleep, arm thrown carelessly over his eyes.  His breathing was deep and
even, and quiet.  He looked peaceful.

I felt a little better.  Still weak and stuffy, but a little more alert.  My headache
had diminished from aggravating to bearable.  I coughed quietly.

Ryan stirred, dropped his arm, and then lifted his head.  If he was particularly
bothered that I had my head on his chest, it didn't show. The only thing he
said was, "You need a shave."  I grinned and scratched my chin across his
bare skin.  "Stop that!" he exclaimed, chuckling.  "It feels like a damn
Scotchbright pad."

I relented.  "What time is it?"

He looked at his wristwatch.  "Five-thirty p.m.  Wow.  Guess I was more
tired than I thought.  I was going to go sleep in my own room, but I must
have dozed off before I got that far."  Yawning, he stretched out. "How are
you feeling?"

"Better," I answered.  "Still weak, but worlds better."

"You sound stuffy," he remarked.

I coughed a bit just then, accidentally dragging my chin across his chest. 
"So do you," I told him, once I was under control.  "You're not getting
sick are you?"  I rolled onto my back.

He smiled a little as he scratched the place I'd tickled on his chest. "It's just
my allergies," he said.  Clearing his throat, he reached to the nightstand
behind him and grabbed a midnight blue jar of Vaporub. I actually liked the
scent of the stuff.  It reminded me of being a kid.  "You want to leave the
shirt on or take it off?" he asked.

"Off," I said.  No sense in ruining a good T-shirt.

Ryan nodded and sat up, setting the jar down by his knee before turning
and pulling off my T-shirt.  "Soon as I get done, I'll make something to eat. 
You hungry?"

I wasn't really, so I shrugged.  "Not terribly, no."

He opened the jar and scooped some of the stuff onto his fingers. Without
comment, he gave it a second to warm before spreading it across my chest
and throat with small, gentle circles.  It felt so good, like a massage.  I
closed my eyes and started to drift.  The man had amazing hands.

Some time later, he stood up and capped the jar.  "I'll be back," he said. 
"The TV remote is on your nightstand."

"Thanks," I murmured, not bothering to open my eyes.  Quite suddenly,
I realized that I had gotten a full-on erection because of Ryan's touch.
When I opened my eyes, I saw it was quite visible.  Great.

It was troubling, although not terribly so.  I just wasn't used to anyone
touching me that way.  That was all.  The fact that it was Ryan touching
me didn't mean anything.  It didn't.  Well, I hadn't gotten aroused in the
bathroom had I?  No...not really.  Okay, a little.

Ryan hadn't cared, apparently.  Despite appearances, he was quite
comfortable with his sexuality and never seemed to care when I touched
him.  By the same token, I never cared when he touched me.  Except
today, apparently.

I willed my hardon away by turning on the TV and watching some baseball
game.  That did the trick.  The Vaporub began to clear away the worst of
the congestion, and some semblance of control came back after a few
minutes.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, Ryan reappeared carrying a wooden tray
that held two steaming bowls and a plate with a sandwich, plus a glass of
orange juice, one of water, and a Pepsi.  A faint smile lit his eyes as he
set the tray down in my lap.  Reclaiming his place on the other side of the
bed, he took one of the soup bowls and the sandwich.  "Eat up," he said,
grabbing the Pepsi.

The soup was chicken noodle, of course, but I didn't want it.  "I'm not
hungry," I said, shaking my head.

He gave me a hard look.  "I don't care," he said.  "You haven't eaten
anything substantial in days.  You need to, and I'll force feed you if I
have to."

Knowing very well I was defeated ere I'd begun, I sighed and picked up
my heavy spoon and took an experimental bite of the soup.  It was hot,
good, and it stimulated my appetite.  "Okay, now I'm hungry."

"Good," Ryan said, tearing into his sandwich.  He glanced at the TV and
swallowed.  "I see your, uh, little problem has gone away."

He'd waited until I had a mouthful of soup to say it, and I nearly choked. 
As it was, I felt some soup go up my nose and I started coughing.  He
thumped my back, grabbing a washcloth to keep the mess confined to
my face.  There was a wicked twinkle in his eye and a small grin on his
lips as he wiped my face.

"My...my problem?" I stammered, once I could breathe again.

Apparently, my discomfort caused Ryan no end of amusement.  "I saw,"
he said.  "You pitched a little tent, if you catch what I'm throwing."

Humiliated, I stared at the soup bowl.  What could I say?  Yes, Ryan.
Because you were touching me in a way my wife doesn't anymore, I got
hard.  Oh sure.  That would go over well.  "Yeah," was about all I
could manage as I felt blood rise to my face.  Better there, I suppose...

Ryan laid a friendly hand against my shoulder.  "Relax.  It's only a
big deal if you make it one, and believe me, it's not."  He paused,
grinned, and then added, "A big deal, I mean."

I ignored that.  "From whose point of view?" I asked.  "You know, I
usually don't do that around you.  It's embarrassing."

"I'll bet," he said without irony.  "Don't worry about it."

"I won't," I said.  "Just don't tell anyone."

"You liked it," he grinned.  "Didn't you?"

I was starting to see the humor in the situation.  "All right, maybe I did. 
Don't you dare tell my wife."

This time, he chuckled.  "Why would I?  Besides, who would I tell? More
importantly, what would I say?  'Oh, guess what, Drew?  The other day,
when I had Colin half naked in my spare room, he popped a boner while I
was rubbing him with Vaporub.'"  He shook his head and snorted. "They
already give me enough crap about being gay."

I couldn't help but laughing a little myself.  I could just imagine Drew's
reaction.  "He'd ask if you liked it."

Ryan nodded.  "So would your wife."

Teasing, I asked, "So did you?"

"Sure," he said in all seriousness.  I stared at him, and he shrugged. "You
weren't the only one," he murmured, blushing.  "There.  Now you know. 
To be honest--and I swear I'll kill you if you repeat this--I like doing that
kind of stuff.  I used to do it all the time for Pat, but not much anymore."

I couldn't think of a thing to say, so I settled on an awkward, "Oh,"
before turning my attention back to the soup.

"Like I said," Ryan said, "it's no big deal, remember?"

Nodding, I said, "Right."

We finished eating in silence.  He took the dishes to the kitchen after we
got done, and when he came back, he'd changed into a pair of gray shorts
and a T-shirt.  He'd gone most of the day without a shirt, but now, it
seemed like a good idea.

For a few hours, we watched TV without saying much.  There wasn't
anything awkward in the silence, not really.  I just didn't feel like talking. 
I did feel more reassured by what he'd said.  It wasn't a big deal.  He
wasn't going to tell anyone, and neither would I.  That was all.  I wasn't
attracted to him or anything.

Wait, where did that come from?

As I was drowsing back toward sleep sometime around ten, that troubling
thought seeped into the back of my mind.  Fortunately, I was too tired to
worry about it.  I rolled onto my stomach with a sigh.  Clean, warm, and
full, I felt a whole lot better.  Weak, but not nearly as much as when I'd
wakened.

Warm hands began rubbing my back in small circles.  I closed my eyes,
drifting, and aroused again.  Crap.  The sound of hands over bare skin
was soft, tantalizing.  I wondered if he knew what his touch was doing
to me.  Finally, I got control and fell right to sleep.

*
It was difficult to think of it as no big deal in the morning.  I had, in the
middle of the night, not only rested my head on his chest, but I'd also
brought my left arm to rest on his shoulder.  His shirt was gone, so I was
halfway laying on his naked torso.  I could feel his heart beating slow
and steady under my ear, and I also felt one of his big hands on my back.

His body was smooth and almost completely hairless.  I had to fight off
an insane urge to kiss the soft skin over his heart.  It had a texture unlike
anything I'd felt before: soft, yet firm and supple.  Not like a woman's skin.

That brought reality back down hard.  What the hell was I doing?  I was a
married man, and so was Ryan.  He was my friend besides.  Not someone
I'd thought about that way, since he was a man, after all.  Still, there was
something tremendously comfortable about being here that made me not
want to move.  That was why I didn't.

He whimpered softly in his sleep.  Instinctively, I moved my left hand from
his shoulder and brought it down to his stomach, running it in light, small
circles over the tanned, muscular skin.  He had morning wood, I noticed,
which tented up his shorts considerably.  I moved my hand a little lower
on his belly, using my fingertips in a light massage.  Down below his belly
button, just above the waistband of his shorts.  Then, just under the elastic.

Ryan sucked in a startled breath as he awoke.  After that, he didn't make
a sound, save one small whimper.  His hand on my back began mirroring
the movements of my hand on his stomach: a feather-light fingertip touch,
gentle and slow.  Down the backbone, along my waist. Without missing a
beat, I scooted onto my side to give him easier access.  God, that touch
was driving me nuts.

Meanwhile, I kept up my exploration of his highly sensitive lower stomach. 
All conscious thought was pretty much gone.  The only things I cared
about were the physical sensations--warmth, strength, softness, texture. 
The sound of his breathing and heartbeat.  I didn't care about anything
else.  After all, it wasn't a big deal.

I moved my hand a little lower, which elicited a startled gasp.  I dragged
my thumb across the area.  His entire body stiffened, jerked. In a tight,
breathless voice, he said, "Don't...don't do that."

I brought my hand up just a bit.  He was quivering with tension, his big
left hand tight on my hip, fingers trailing down toward my own erection. 
It occurred to me just then exactly what I'd just been about to do.  And
with whom.

"God," I mumbled, pulling my hand out of his shorts.  "What am I doing?"

"I don't know," Ryan said, "but it sure is an interesting way to wake up." 
He pulled his hand out of my sweats.  "Ah, listen.  Whatever that was,
let's just keep it between us."

"Like I'd really tell anyone that I was an inch away from fondling your
dick," I snorted and then shook my head.  "I can't believe I just said that. 
What the hell...?  I feel like a damn teenager all of a sudden." It was a
frustrating feeling.  I didn't understand why I was acting this way, why I
was still lying on top of him.  Why I was enjoying it so much.

"I don't know," he said quietly, rubbing my back again.  "If it's any
consolation, I'm feeling like that, too.  Look at me.  I can't keep my
hands off of you all of a sudden."

So I'd noticed.  "I need a cold shower."

"We both do," he said.  "Let me up."  He got to his feet and I saw that
his face was flushed with embarrassment.  "Listen, you need help or are
you going to make it on your own?"

I sat up, but my head swam sickly.  "Ugh," I muttered, torn.  I knew
the right thing to do would be to lie and say I was okay.  In his current
mood, he would have believed it.  But I couldn't.  "No," I said softly. 
"I don't think I can."

Ryan nodded once and moved to help me out of bed.  This time, his
touch was strictly business.  Once in the bathroom, he drew the bath--
cool this time--while I used the toilet.  When it was ready, he helped me
out of my pants and into the tub.  The water wasn't too cold, but it
wasn't that warm either.  It felt pretty good, actually, and I settled in
quickly.

He perched on the edge of the tub for a moment.  If he'd left then, I
honestly believe that nothing ever would have happened.  Our lives
would have gotten back to normal.  But he did stay; he wanted to
know the same thing I did.

"Col."  His voice was unusually hesitant.  "What...what did happen?"

I looked down at my hands in the water--white and thin--and tried to
think of something to say, a joke, anything to diffuse the situation.
Nothing sprang to mind.  We'd already gone too far: we'd given away
too much.  There was nothing left to do but be honest.

"I don't know," I admitted.  "But I do know that I thought it was just
the touch that was doing it.  I know it's not, though.  It's...you. All of
a sudden...I'm feeling very strange.  I can't explain it because I'm not
that sure what it is.  All I know is that I like it when you touch me."

Ryan was quiet for a very long time, eyes distant and inward-turned.
Finally, he said, "I'm...kind of confused here.  I mean...on the one
hand, I sure as hell liked...doing that, but...I don't know.  All I do know
is that when I woke up this morning, I felt like I was where I should have
been.  Like I was home."

That was it.  That one little thing I'd been missing: a sense of place. The
sense I was where I should have been.  Waking up with him had felt
right.  Just that.  The feel of his firm/soft skin under my cheek, his hand
on my back, my hands roving all over him.  Especially that.

"It felt right," I said at length.

He nodded once.  "Maybe it was."

"I think it is," I agreed.  With a wicked smile, I reached up and tugged
at the waistband of his shorts.  "You've seen me naked.  My turn now. 
Get in here."

"Are you sure?" he asked, somewhat breathless.

"Yes."

Red-cheeked, he nodded and stood up.  Taking a deep breath, he
slipped quickly out of his shorts and then climbed into the tub.  It was
a big tub, designed for several people, so there was plenty of room,
but he chose to sit hip-to-hip with me.

I took his hand and brought it down to my lap.  He touched the insides
of my thighs, my lower belly, and hips gently while I did the same.
There really wasn't any hurry.

A few minutes later, he suddenly raised his hand to my cheek, lifting
up my face.  There was no fear in his eyes as he leaned down to kiss
me.  I turned toward him, responding with gentle passion, trailing a
wet hand down his chest, over his hardened nipples, down his smooth
stomach.  Lost in sensation, I forgot everything but the moment.

We brought each other off slowly while we kissed.  I'd never felt
anything quite like it.  My orgasm was stronger than any I'd had in the
past few years.

Afterward, we went into the bedroom and lay naked on the bed.  He
spooned against my back.  In a way, this was as good as the sex.  He
touched me practically everywhere, lightly, pausing every now and again
to kiss my shoulder or neck, or nip at my earlobe.  He was a very
sensual man, after all.

*
I stayed at his house for almost two weeks.  During that time, we had
as much sex as we could.  I recovered thanks to him, and was able to
get back to work Friday.  If anyone noticed that we acted differently
toward each other, they gave no sign.

That was a year ago.  We're still together.  He left Drew Carey and
moved back to Toronto.  He and I have regained all our old closeness
and I'm very much in love.  Our wives--ex-wives--have gone.  That's
probably for the best.

Ryan and I are content.  It seems that our lives have been leading up
to this.  So, I'm going to find my love, tell him how special he is, and
get busy living.  Funny, isn't it, how life goes on?

THE END

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